“Mom! He will come, right?” I ask, swinging my legs back and forth as Mom flips through a stack of papers. We are both sitting on the couch. It is Sunday morning, and the house feels extra serene because Dad has gone golfing with his friends.

“He agreed, didn’t he?” Mom says, jotting something down in her notebook before leaning back. I rest my head on her lap and play with the hem of her top. 

“I mean…he did, but what if his parents don’t allow him to come?” Before she can answer, the doorbell rings. I jump up from the couch and rush to the door. When I open it, Mikhael is standing there with a brown scarf around his neck, his hands tucked behind his back, looking as if he isn’t sure he is really here.

“Come in, Mikhael!” I grab his hand and pull him inside, shutting the door behind us. He lets out a gasp and bows awkwardly when Mom walks over with a smile, “Mikhael, this is my mom! Mom, this is Mikhael!” I say, feeling proud. He is the first friend I made all on my own, and now she can finally see him.

“Nice to meet you, Mikhael,” Mom says. She reaches out, maybe to pat his hair, but he steps back and ends up pulling me with him. She pauses, then curls her finger back with a soft laugh, “Why don’t you show him your room, Layla? I will prepare some cookies, okay?”

“Cookies!” I cheer. Mom makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. I drag him down the hallway, straight into my room. He is clutching the bag slung over his left shoulder.

“Welcome to my room!” I announce, hopping onto my bed. He sits beside me, “Did you bring it?” I ask.

He nods and rummages through his bag, pulling out a stack of sketchbooks. That is the whole reason he is here. It is December now, and ever since that day at the natatorium, we have gotten close, both in class and outside of it. I always see him with a sketchbook, drawing whenever he gets the chance. I asked once if I could come to his house to see more of his drawings, and he refused while looking terrified but a few days later, he asked if it would be okay to come to my house instead. I had said yes before he even finished asking.

With snow falling outside, we sit here in the warmth of my room. I take the sketchbook from the top of the stack and start flipping through it. Most of the pages are filled with drawings of dogs and cats. Every now and then, a man appears. When I look closely, he looks like Mikhael, but also…not really.

When I glance up, Mikhael has left the bed and is standing near my table, staring at the books stacked there, “You read?” he asks, like it isn’t obvious. To be fair, I have been reading less ever since I became friends with him. We usually talk or study together in class, so I guess I understand why he sounds surprised.

“Yeah, I do,” I say, “Reading calms me down. It makes me feel like I can step into a whole new world. It is really amazing.”

He nods and sits back down beside me, “What are you looking at?” he asks, leaning closer to the sketchbook. I turn it slightly so he can see the drawing of the man. A smile spreads across his face without him even trying to hide it.

“That’s my dad.”

I stare at the page, then at him, then back at the page again, “What? You look nothing like him. No, wait. That is…not right.”

I hold the sketch up next to his face, comparing them seriously. They don’t look alike, not really, but their eyes have the same warmth and softness. I lower the sketch and suddenly feel silly. Of course he would draw his own father. Why would it be anyone else? But then a thought sneaks in. If that is his dad, why have I not seen a sketch of his mom?

I want to ask, but he is already flipping through pages, showing me more drawings of his father. He looks so happy while doing it that I decide to ask another time.

I pull out the sketchbook from the very bottom of the pile and open it. It is filled with doodles of red pandas but they are not normal red pandas. They stand like people, wink at the air, and have little hearts drawn all around them. It almost feels like he was thinking of someone while drawing it.

“Hey,” I say, shoving the book toward him, “What does the red panda represent?”

He looks down at the page, then up at me. Redness dusting his neck, “…you,” he mumbles.

“What?”

He goes quiet for a moment, then whispers, “They are meant to represent you.”

Huh?

Just then, the door creaks open and Mom walks in, carrying a plate of cookies. She sits on the floor and places the plate between us.

“Mom,” I say quickly, still staring at the sketchbook, “Do I look like a red panda?”

She pauses, then looks at the drawing, then back at my face. She presses her lips together before laughing, “The resemblance is uncanny.”

Mikhael laughs, and I can’t believe she agrees with him.

“What do you mean it is uncanny? I don’t look like…” Mom gently stuffs a cookie into my mouth. The warm chocolate melts instantly, and I sigh despite myself, “This is unfair,” I mumble around the cookie, still chewing as both of them smile at me.

The sketchbook is forgotten between us as I keep munching on cookies. Mom nudges the plate toward Mikhael, “Are you not going to eat?” she asks. He stiffens, like he is not sure what the right answer is.

“My mom told me not to eat things people offer,” he says, “Because it might be too much trouble for them.” Mom doesn’t hesitate. She places a cookie directly into his hand.

“In this house, nothing is ever a problem,” she says, “And I would be sad if you didn’t eat my special cookies. Isn’t that right, Layla?”

I nod, crumbs on my lips, “Very right.”

She reaches out to ruffle both of our hair. This time, Mikhael doesn’t pull away. He lowers his head just a little and takes a careful bite of the cookie, chewing as his shoulders relax.

By evening, Mikhael had gone home. I felt content, but there was also a loneliness marking his absence. Mom pulled me into her lap and began massaging my head. I melted into her touch as she hummed a soft song I half recognized.

“Mom, can I bring him over again?” I ask.

“As many times as you like,” she says, “He is a good kid. Different from your previous friends.” She pauses, then adds, “Just promise me something.”

“Yeah?” I shift in her lap so I can look at her properly.

“Promise me you will never make him feel like he is taking up space here.”

I tilt my head, not sure why I need to promise that but if mom is asking, then it must be important. I hold out my pinky and she wraps hers around mine.

“I promise!”